


The Second Prince

by common_potential



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, M/M, Patroclus is a softie, Slow Burn, there are horses apparently
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29440575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/common_potential/pseuds/common_potential
Summary: Patroclus has never been happy as the prince of Opus—how can he be when his father, the king, is always dripping with disdain? But when Achilles is exiled from Phthia and sent to live in Patroclus’s kingdom, Patroclus finds that he is no longer the only prince in his father’s palace, and learns that he might be fated to more in life than hiding from his father.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 54





	1. An Exiled Prince

Piety has never come easily to me. Such devotion as our gods require flows most easily from those whom the gods have already chosen to bless; past favors loosen the hand that pours libations. Though I was born a prince, and had every material comfort that our age could allow, I had never been happy. Beyond the stony comforts given to the son of a tyrant king, I had nothing for which to thank the gods, and so the gods never blessed me in return.

I did not view the arrival of Achilles, exiled son of Peleus, to be a blessing. It was the summer of my seventeenth year, when the scrapped remainder of my boyhood had not yet begun to shape itself into the golden promises of youth.

I did not learn of Achilles’ coming from my father, the king—he would not have shown me so much courtesy. It was the old and weather-beaten stable-master, Theros, who told me. We stood in a dusty stall as he watched me a wind a bandage around the leg of a lame horse. This was not the job of a prince, but Theros and I had a grudging understanding that he would not tell my father that this was where I hid in the long, hot afternoons, and I would do much of the work that should have fallen to Theros.

“So,” he said. “You will not be the only prince within our palace walls for much longer.”

I dropped the horse’s leg, and he stamped it impatiently. I lifted a hand to the horse’s flank to quiet him, and he settled.

“Is my mother pregnant?” I asked, stupidly.

My mother would not be pregnant. My father had not touched my mother in years—any of his hopes of a competent heir had died with my failure of a childhood.

“Have you not heard?” Theros’ voice was not surprised. “The prince Achilles has been exiled, and your father has agreed to foster him.”

I bent back down to the horse’s half bandaged leg, avoiding Theros’ withered face.

“What has he done to be exiled?” I asked.

“They say he has killed a man, with a dulled sword in practice. They say the prince did not understand his own strength.”

I did not think that my own strength was enough to kill a man, even with a sword sharpened to the deadliest point—even against a man with no defense. I had seen the prince Achilles when we were both still the youngest of children, and I remembered how fast he had been, faster at five than I was now at seventeen. The ghost of envy, long dormant, began to curdle again in my stomach.

 _This is what a son should be_ , my father had said. _This is what a prince should be_.

I saw his arrival when he was still miles off, just purple sails billowing in the wind. Those were not the sails of an exiled son, excommunicated from his name. I watched the ship come in from my perch on a hill above the harbor, sitting on the rocky soil beneath a Cyprus tree. The shade was not enough, and I was coated in sweat, my tunic sticking to my back, but I did not return to the cool halls of the palace. 

The sun was unbearable, but I still did not move, even as it reflected off the sea into my eyes. I watched as a small rowboat lowered from the larger boat with the billowing sails, and a boy with golden hair jumped lithely down into it. It was too far to see his face distinctly, but the gleam of his hair and the circlet placed upon it was unmistakable. I lifted my hand to touch my own dull circlet.

Achilles was no longer a prince. His circlet should have been stripped from him long ago, before the blood of the dead man had dried on his hands. The sails on his ship should not have borne his father’s crest.

I sat in the simmering heat for a long time. The small boat drifted slowly to the shore, its men paddling the oars in rhythmic movements. When the boat hit the shallows, Achilles leaped out to help his men drag it onto the sand. He would be at the palace soon, and my father would expect me to welcome him. Even in my father’s ruthless kingdom, the duties of a host were imperative for keeping the land civilized.

I heard my name called from somewhere beneath the hills, and I was too cowardly to ignore it. I fell on my knees as I scrambled down the cliffs, and my knee began to bleed.

My father did not look at me as I entered the throne room, sweating and bloody. I knelt before him, my skinned knees scraping on the cold and jagged flagstone that sat before him. My father still did not look at me, and I rose again, and sat in the small chair to his left.

Though it was established fact that my father cared nothing for me, I still accompanied him in the throne room for matters of the state. Though the court was under no illusion that I was a competent son, my father liked for me to see the power that he wielded over all of his subjects. 

I was picking at the blood beginning to dry on my knee when the door to the throne room opened and Achilles walked in. He moved like a mountain lion, all swinging power and grace.

His beauty had not diminished since childhood, but instead had been allowed to ripen with growth. His childish roundness was gone, and in its stead was a sort of powerful tension of his limbs, lean but tense with controlled strength. He was not broad, as most men of my kingdom were, but his slimness hinted at speed and craftiness.

But while his limbs showed power, there was something elegant in his face. I did not allow myself then to consider the way those glass-green eyes moved ceaselessly throughout the room landing finally on my own face. He looked at me before he looked at my father.

I tore my eyes from his gaze, and Achilles finally looked at the king, approaching the throne. He slid to his knees in front my father, but lifted his chin to look straight into the king’s eyes, as I had been afraid to do just a moment before.

“King Menoetius,” he said. “I am Achilles of Phthia, son of Peleus, come to be your foster-son.”

I saw my father look over Achilles’ kneeling form, every part of it a lethal weapon constructed for no other purpose but to kill. Any beauty to be found in him was incidental, a trap to keep you from noticing his danger. I looked down at my knees, and went back to picking at the bloodied mess.

“You are welcome here, Achilles,” my father said. “You may stand.”

I kept my eyes down as Achilles rose to his feet, and left us to find his room, guided by a slave.

I did not see Achilles again until dinner.

Meal times were torture. I was expected to sit at the head table, reserved only for royalty and my father’s closest companions. For my father to keep me from this table would have been an admission that his noble blood had soured in my veins, and while the whole court gloated openly about my weakness, it would be an insult to my father to deny the royalty of my blood, even if it belonged a most hated son.

I remember that we ate bull’s meat on the evening of Achilles’ arrival—it was a rare thing to eat outside of feast days. My father should not have made such an effort for an exile, even if he was been a prince—Phthia’s lands were hardly worth mentioning in the same breath with our vast expanse of a kingdom.

I was not the only person to wonder. The hall was filled with murmurings about Achilles, which stopped abruptly as he entered, the last person to walk into the hall. They would not whisper about him again. The men in the hall saw then what I had seen in the throne room—that stripped of his title or not, this boy had more right to be called prince than I would ever have. It was clear in every part of his form—Achilles’ tensely held limbs, long and lean, the handsome set of his brow, his hair golden and gleaming in the candlelight, and the way he managed to hold every man’s eye in the large hall simply by walking through the door.

Visitors were not rare in my father’s kingdom—our lands were large, and we heavily influenced the neighboring kingdoms. It was not rare to have ambassadors from so far as Sparta come to ask my father to send troops in a war, or to shower us with gifts to ascertain future help from our kingdom. Kings would come also, both to make alliances and end them. Those visitors were fully grown men, more richly dressed than Achilles, yet they did not hold the gaze of our hall like this exiled prince.

Achilles made straight for our table at the head of the long room and sat down in the empty chair next to me. My father normally raged at lateness, but he said nothing as he stood to make the libation. An earthenware jug painted with scenes of the gods rested on the table, and my father lifted it, before pouring a stream of the wine into a shallow bowl. I kept my gaze fixed on the knotted oak table.

“For Zeus,” my father said, and then poured wine from the same jug into his own cup.

“For Zeus.” Achilles echoed softly beside me. His voice sounded bored—this was an intonation from habit rather than piety.

My father and his councilmen began to speak to Achilles then, commanding his attention, and I looked at my food. Nobody spoke to me, which I was glad of—being ignored by my father’s men was far better than the alternative. The court took advantage of my father’s hatred of me, feeding on my flaws with relish.

The councilman spoke to Achilles about many things: the length of his journey, the lack of women aboard his ship, and where the best hunting was to be found on our lands. Nobody mentioned the terms of his exile, or asked him why he still used his father’s name when he could no longer step foot inside of his kingdom. Achilles answered each question with humor and wit, but I could hear the boredom in his voice, unnoticed by my father’s friends.

The conversation began to lull as the wine-jug began to run dry. I did not look up when I felt Achilles look at me, his stare intense and unwavering. He had not yet discovered that currying favor with me would get him nowhere in my father’s court.

“I am Achilles,” he said.

“I know,” I said, concentrating on cutting my roast. The meat was rough, and the knife felt clumsy in my hand.

“What is your name?” Achilles asked.

At last, I looked up at his face. It looked pink in the candlelight, hardly the face of a killer, and his features were delicate for a boy.

“Patroclus,” I said.

“You are shy,” Achilles said. “For a prince.”

“You are bold,” I answered. “For an exile.”

Achilles’ mouth gave a quirk of amusement, but could not respond—my father, noticing our conversation, turned towards Achilles and pulled his attention away from me.

“I don’t want you bothering Achilles,” my father told me the next morning at breakfast. “I don’t want him to discover that my heir is as foolish as his mother.”

I glanced at my mother, sipping from honeyed wine at the end of our table. The front of her chiton was already smeared with fig jam. I did not think she had heard my father’s insult. I looked back at the window, which faced the bay. The waves were foaming as the tide drew out.

“I will not, Father,” I said.

“You will ensure that he does not see you at your fighting lessons,” the king continued, spreading jam and honey onto his bread. “He must not know how unskilled you are.”

Even if Achilles did not see how clumsy I was on the practice field, any man or woman could tell him how unskilled I was—my father himself often told his subjects about my failures of the day, joking over wine at dinner.

“Why?” I asked, looking at my father. Though he was powerfully built, much more so than me, there was always something hauntingly familiar in his form—the shape of his chin, the deep brown of his eyes, and the grim line of his mouth reminded me too much of myself.

“It is a great asset to have a boy like Achilles in your debt,” my father answered, his frown deepening. “You will never lead our army, of course, and he is prophesized to be the greatest fighter of the Greeks. I would prefer him, though, not to understand why I can never give so much power to you; he would think us weak.”

“Father.” My voice was tentative, but my desire to know the answer overpowered my fear of my father’s coldness. “Does Achilles keep his father’s name even in exile?”

My father laughed, a high, keening sound, very much like my own laugh.

“ _You_ can hardly ask that question, you who keeps your father’s name without ever having earned it. Far better to kill a man than to bring disgrace upon your name.”

I nodded, nearly numb by now to the wounds my father’s words inflicted on me. We finished breakfast; our silence only perforated by the occasional giggle from my mother’s end of the table—she liked to watch the storks catch fish in the shallow waves of the sea.

Our palace was in many ways a labyrinth—cool and dark hallways of marble snaked through twisting corners, falling below ground to make tunnels beneath the walls. I was late for my sword lesson, and though there was a direct route out of the palace through the front hallway with its wide oak doors adorned with brass fittings, councilmen and their sons loitered there, waiting to make me even later with their jeers. Only slaves used these dark paths, lit sparsely by glowing torches on brass wall brackets.

I was not prepared to see Achilles, lounging against a wall as if it was made of velvet instead of cool marble. There was no reason for him to be here, in this dark hallway that nobody knew of beyond the slaves and my father. I had been running and was panting like a dog when I saw him, less than a yard from me. I stopped, and knew that he could hear my breath heaving loudly from exertion. Achilles would not need to see me fight to know how poorly I would fare in battle.

“Patroclus,” he said. “Where do you rush to?”

“The practice field,” I answered before I could think of a lie. “I have a lesson.”

“May I come with you?” he asked. “I have not been yet, and nobody has shown me the way.”

He was still standing casually against the wall, and I took a step back from him. I remembered my father’s words, and what Theros had told me—a man, fully grown and surely a better fighter than me, killed by a blunt practice sword.

“No,” I said. “No, it is a private lesson.”

“I will not bother you—”

“My father would not like it,” I interrupted. “He prefers for me to practice alone.”

The way I said it sounded deep and mysterious, like I fought alone to hide strategy rather than incompetence.

“My father too, preferred for me to practice alone,” Achilles said, his green eyes glinting in the dim light.

If I was bolder, I would have asked why he had disobeyed his father and struck a man dead in practice.

“I’m sure any of the men in the palace would be glad to show you the practice field,” I said.

“But not you.”

“No,” I said. “Not me.” 

His face shifted from amusement to some emotion that I would grow to recognize as well as my own thoughts, but we were still strangers to each other in that dark hallway.

Perhaps, I thought, this was the first time anyone had ever refused his company.

“Patroclus,” he said. His voice was soft, but my name rang off the close walls of the passageway. “If you will not take me with you, then I must be honest with you. I am very, _very_ lost. I’ve been walking in circles for hours.”

I was silent for a moment, and listened to the crackle of the torch hanging in its wall bracket. There was a light snapping noise, and a small cloud of ash fell onto the floor, but the light did not go out.

“I will take you then,” I said.

We did not speak as I led him through the winding halls. The marble of the walls eventually turned to limestone as the palace shifted into the cave that it was built into, hundreds of years before my birth. Achilles reached out to stroke the softer stone as we passed. The neatly packed flagstone under our feet turned into the natural cave floor, and the path narrowed until we could no longer walk shoulder to shoulder. I stepped in front of him to lead. The torches on the walls were fewer and fewer until there were no more, and we were plunged into darkness.

“Do not worry,” I told Achilles. “The ground is even.” 

His soft footsteps sounded behind me as I walked blindly, my hand on the wall. Though my movements on the practice fields were eternally clumsy, I could always be sure of my footing in this dark cave away from prying eyes.

I had walked this same path many times, and soon we were in the main chamber of the cave, lit with shafts of yellow light by the open holes in the vaulted ceiling. Achilles stepped into one of the streams of light, illuminating his hair so that it was a fiery gold.

“It’s lovely,” Achilles said, brushing a stalagmite with his hand.

“The palace connects to a honeycomb of caves,” I said. “This one brings you very close the practice field, but go left over the field and you will easily find the way back to the palace.”

“You will show me the other caves?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I should not even have shown you this. It is not for visitors to know.”

“I am hardly a visitor,” Achilles said. “I live here now.”

I didn’t answer him, and instead walked past him and out of the cave into the bright light of the late morning sun. Achilles did not follow me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! I have the whole story planned, so I hope to have the next chapter out by the end of the week :)


	2. To Be Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines of poetry which appear at the end of this chapter are taken straight from Hesiod's Theogony! Hesiod wrote his work roughly around the same time as Homer, which would make him slightly after our guys' time, but oh well.

It was a very bad practice. I have spoken enough about my incompetence as a son and soldier in training, so I will only say this: I spent the whole hour haunted by the thought that Achilles might have followed me and was hiding above the crest of the hill, watching me as I ran across the track drawn in chalk in the grass.

I did not go back to the palace after training. I had packed cheese and watered wine for my lunch, so I was able to head straight into the sweltering sun of the hills. The way to the stable was filled with yellow grass as high as my knee, swaying slightly in the light wind. The rain in Opus was unreliable at best, so our grass was eternally yellow and covered in dust. It would have been an ugly kingdom if not for the glistening sea visible beyond every bend, and the gnarled olive trees which clustered at the top of the rocky hills, dripping with their fruit. I ate my lunch under one of the twisting trees as I watched the swooping seabirds dive into the ocean, catching fish in their yellow bills.

After I finished eating, I went to the stable, which was nestled into the foot of a hill and surrounded by pastures of craggy grass. The swollen Mediterranean sun was relentless even here in the shelter of the hills, and sweat glistened on the backs of the horses who grazed there.

The stable itself was cool, dark, and filled with the quiet sounds of dozing horses. My father owned them all, though he was no horseman. Owning horses was a sign of great wealth, and a stable full of fine warhorses was as valuable as a treasury filled with rubies and silver.

Only Xanthos was alert, and it was he that I approached with an apple saved from my lunch. Xanthos and his mate Balios were spoils of a war with the East and were the horses I spent the most time training. They were willful and spirited, and became irritable if I did not exercise them more days than not.

Xanthos took my apple delicately in his strong jaw before crunching it so that its juices flowed onto my outstretched hand.

“Thanks,” I told him, wiping my hand on my tunic before stepping into his stall.

Sun from the window streamed through the shade of the stable onto Xanthos’ back, illuminating his golden coat. Xanthos was born east of Troy, and was not built like Greek horses. Our horses were as stockily built as our men, short and hardy as our rocky land demanded. Xanthos was tall and slimly built, for speed rather than sheer power. He was not a horse that could be hooked up to a plow and expected to work for his feed during years of peace, and my father kept him and Balios only as ornaments for our fields, because their shining coats could often be seen from ships as they grazed high on the hills.

I bridled Xanthos and led him out into the field, using the stone fence to climb onto his bare back. Though Xanthos was less stocky than a Greek horse, I could feel the power of his strong back underneath me, ready to break into a gallop as soon as I let him. We made our way out of the field and into the hills, Xanthos stepping carefully around the stones. 

It was not the fashion in Greece to ride horses, except for a woman traveling. Horses were hooked to chariots and sent into battle with men steering them with long reins and whips, but riding astride was still mostly an eastern phenomenon. I did not care. When I rode Xanthos, it was as if we were one creature, and I shared his power. Together, we were faster than any man. We were even faster than the gods, though it tempts fate to say so.

We made our way through the rocky fields, carpeted in the wildflowers of early summer. They came in every color; periwinkle and magenta, blush pink and yellow. It felt lavish to allow Xanthos to crush them under his hooves and to watch the flowers bleed pink and blue beneath us. By the next morning yet more flowers would have sprung up to replace the crushed ones, even more lovely than the flowers of today.

I guided Xanthos to a rare stretch of even ground which stretched at the top of a south-facing cliff. Under the sheer cliff, there was a thin strand of white sand, and the Mediterranean flowed beyond it, gently lapping the shore, as lazy as the rest of the kingdom in the afternoon heat.

I loosened the reins and let Xanthos ease into a canter, but I pulled him back again when I saw a flash of something as bright as a flame on the beach below the cliff. Xanthos tossed his head in annoyance and strained at the bit.

“Easy,” I murmured, and edged him as close to the cliff as was safe.

It was then that I saw him on the beach, watching the rhythmic movement of the waves. He should not have been there: the beach was in an isolated bay, and far from the palace.

Xanthos struck a hoof against the earth before dancing to the side, eager for the freedom to race against the waves and bored of my staring.

“Shh,” I told him. “It is the prince Achilles.”

From this height, Achilles did not look like the prideful young man who had knelt in my throne room with his chin raised as if he was a king. He was simply a lanky boy with fiery hair; a brighter version of my own self.

But then Achilles turned away from the surf, and I could no longer pretend that he was anything less than immortal because suddenly he was running, his feet tearing up clots of sand that landed long after he was gone.

I turned Xanthos away from the edge of the cliff and gave him his head. He needed no urging from me and exploded into a gallop, stretching his neck down in a long and furious stride. We tore up the ground beneath us in our speed, and at first, it was not enough. Achilles had a head start, and the curve of the bay was to his advantage. The cliff was a hollow sickle, curving inward, and Achilles had the inside track.

But Xanthos was faster than any boy, even one with a nymph for a mother. We chased Achilles relentlessly, and though he was still oblivious to our presence, when the horse caught up to him, it was as if something deep inside Achilles told him to increase his already inhuman speed. It felt as if Xanthos was flying above the foaming waves, suspended hundreds of feet in the air. We were faster than the seagulls wheeling through the air and we were faster than the dolphins sailing through the waves. We were faster than Achilles.

When we passed him, Achilles looked up at the cliffs, finally hearing the drumming of Xanthos’ hooves against the tightly packed dirt. And then we were at the eastern edge of the cliff, and I had to pull Xanthos up. For one infinite moment, I thought that Xanthos was going to leap off, because he was resistant to every tug of the reins, but then he halted suddenly, and I was almost thrown off from the suddenness of the stop.

“Woah,” I whispered to Xanthos. My hands were shaking as I turned him away from the eastern edge.

I stared down the cliff at Achilles, and he stared back up at me. He was that lanky boy with the bright hair again, no longer the prince who, at age seventeen, already had bards drafting songs to sing his praises.

I was gasping for breath, and every inhale from my lungs was a sharp stab of pain that clouded my thoughts. And through the clouds of pain drifted thoughts of Achilles following me that morning through the dim light of the cave, his breathing soft and unlabored behind me.

His breathing was not so slow now—even from hundreds of feet above, I could see the heavy rise and fall of Achilles’ shoulders.

I wondered if he had ever lost a race before, even one so unevenly matched as this one.

“ _Patroclus_!” he called up to me, his clear voice carrying high above the cliffs.

I did not answer, but urged Xanthos away from Achilles’ voice and towards the trail that would take us home.

That evening, a bard came to Opus. My father did not enjoy music, so singers and poets came to our shores only rarely, but the man who sang that night had been much bragged of in Sparta, and my father would not be outdone.

After dinner, the hall was transformed—the long tables had been removed, and enough rows of wooden benches had replaced them to seat three hundred. All of the nobles had been invited, even the women, who sat the back of the hall, whispering among themselves. The men, who were not yet seated, flocked like moths to their murmuring voices.

Among them was Achilles. He stood next to Clysonymus, a large youth who was the son of my father’s closest advisor. Clysonymus had, in childhood, been my greatest tormenter, chasing me into the sparse woods by the sea, and pummeling me until my face was a bloodied mess. In near adulthood, Clysonymus still occasionally attacked me to remind me that, though I was a prince, I was also a weakling. My father knew of this, of course, but had decided when I was a small child that being plagued by larger boys was a proper penance for being born a weak runt instead of a true prince.

Clysonymus would be a wise choice for a companion of Achilles. His father was influential in the politics of the palace and would form connections for Achilles when he joined the guards. Strategically, nothing could make more sense.

But Clysonymus was dim where Achilles shone brightly. Though both boys were strong, Clysonymus was brutish and built like an ox, and about as intelligent as one. He had piggish eyes and a florid face, and his expression was always dull and foolish. It was absurd to watch Achilles laughing next to him, his green eyes burning with animation.

The king entered, and his presence quieted the women and sent the men hurrying to their seats. My father was alone—he had not allowed my mother to come. My mother rarely escaped the fog that enveloped her mind, but it was music that most often drove the clouds away. If I’d had any talent with the lyre, my mother would not have had to rely on my father for music, but my fingers were clumsy on the strings and my voice was weak and tuneless.

Achilles and Clysonymus made their way to the bench next to mine. I kept my eyes on the back of my father’s head in front of me so that I did not have to see Achilles as he spoke softly to Clysonymus.

The bard was already sitting at the front of the hall on a wooden stool. His lyre, which sat at his feet, was not beautiful—it was made of plain, unpolished wood, and was so splintered that it looked like touching it would draw blood. My father was displeased.

The bard strummed the lyre to quiet the hall and began to sing, his voice ringing through the hall.

_“From the muses let us sing,_

_who dance on soft feet about the deep-blue spring_

_and the altar of the almighty son of Cronos.”_

The hall was still. Even my father’s back was straight as he listened to this bard’s version of the story we had all heard since infancy—the story of the immortal gods rising above the clouds that crowned Olympus.

_“When they have washed their tender bodies in Permessus_

_or in the Horse's Spring,_

_they make their fair, lovely dances upon highest Helicon_

_and move with vigorous feet.”_

The thrums of the lyre were high and bright, echoing off the walls and enveloping the listeners in the music.

Achilles was staring at me; I did not need to look at him to know it. Heat flooded up my throat and into my face. I would not have to bear this for long—Clysonymus would tell him that I was not worth staring at. Achilles would soon learn that nothing could be gained from my friendship.

I stared at the sconce which held the nearest torch and concentrated on the flickering flames so that I would not be tempted to meet Achilles’ gaze.

_“They arise and go abroad by night,_

_veiled in thick mist, and utter their song_

_with lovely voice."_

My resolution to look anywhere but Achilles’ face slowly dissolved, melted by the sweetness of the bard’s voice. I turned my head and instantly regretted it, for Achilles was still looking at me. I knew that his keen eyes would not miss the flush of my face. Sudden, irrational anger made my skin burn even hotter. Even the backs of my hands were splotched with red, and I realized for the first time that my hands were clenched into fists.

The bard sang on, his voice spiraling to the ceiling as he began to sing of how the world began.

_“Truly it was Chaos who first came to be,_

_but next came wide-bosomed Earth,_

_the ever-sure foundations of all the deathless ones.”_

Clysonymus leaned over Achilles’ shoulder and whispered something in his ear. I looked away, staring again at my father’s black hair, on which his ruby-encrusted diadem rested. It had been his grandfather’s and it would be mine after my father’s death. 

_“The Earth held Eros, fairest among the deathless gods,_

_who unnerves the limbs and overcomes the mind_

_and wise counsels of all gods and all men within them.”_

Achilles was looking at me again, but so was Clysonymus, and his face was contorted into the grin of a coyote, fierce and twisted. Achilles turned away from me and bent to murmur something to Clysonymus. They both laughed quietly,

_“And Earth first bore starry Heaven,_

_equal to herself, to cover her on every side,_

_and to be an ever-sure abiding-place for the blessed gods.”_

I shut my eyes so tightly that flames began to flash behind my lids, sparking yellow and orange. I let the song wash over me and tried to imagine I was the starry heaven that the poet spoke of, stretching across the expanse of the earth.

_And she brought forth long hills,_

_graceful haunts of the goddess-nymphs_

_who dwell amongst the glens of the hills.”_

The music swelled until the notes of the lyre were almost unbearable in their intensity, and then, abruptly, the hall was silent.

The hall was slow to disperse. Men pulled their wineskins from their cloaks and began to drink heavily as they laughed and shouted, their calls echoing off the walls as the song of the lyre had just a few minutes before. They were crowding the women again, offering them drinks of wine and touching the dyed fabric of their chitons. The women smiled at the men they thought worthy and turned scornful to those they didn’t. A willowy girl, younger than the others, was smiling at Achilles, her blue eyes glinting up at him.

It was oppressively loud—the marble walls which made the lyre sound like birdsong made the raucous noises of the men into a squabble of wild dogs, throaty and brash. A sharp pain stabbed at my temples, and I longed for the cool darkness of my rooms.

My father, having downed most of his strong currant wine, would not notice if I left, but to leave was to go past the throng of women and their male admirers. Clysonymus was next to Achilles and trying to catch the eye of a tall woman in a yellow chiton.

I stayed close to the wall with my eyes on the ground as I passed the group, but Clysonymus saw me, all interest in the woman forgotten as he noticed how I avoided his look.

“Patroclus!” he called. “Join us.”

Achilles looked up from the blue-eyed girl.

“I’m going to bed,” I said, and began to move faster. Clysonymus would not dare to hit me here in my own hall, but he would not hesitate to humiliate me in front of Achilles.

“But it is so early, and there are so many fine women that you, as the prince, have a right to enjoy,” he said, grinning so that I could see his yellow teeth. They were jagged from too many fights, and three of them were missing altogether.

This, I could not refuse. Men in my kingdom bragged of their romantic conquests even more than their conquests in battle, and I had a reputation of being even more useless with women than with war. Speaking with women made me nervous, but I had to at least pretend that I wanted to try.

I walked over to where Clysonymus stood, and he grabbed a fistful of my tunic, dragging me to the tall woman in the yellow chiton next to him. Achilles sidestepped the blue-eyed girl and joined our circle.

“Well, Amara?” Clysonymus asked. “What do you think of our noble prince?”

Her dark eyes passed over me, and she smiled.

“I think that he seems very sweet.”

She could not have chosen a worse adjective. Clysonymus exploded with laughter, and I saw Achilles grin, but there was also a hint of confusion on his face.

“Yes,” Clysonymus said. “He is very sweet, like a rabbit in a field, hiding from the dogs. Have you seen Patroclus fight yet, Prince Achilles?”

“I have not yet had the privilege,” he answered. His eyes narrowed and glanced over every part of me, as if inspecting to see how he had missed my weakness.

“He fights about as well as a rabbit,” Clysonymus said, gripping my tunic tighter and pulling me towards him. “But when he runs away, he is not as _fast_ as a rabbit—prey should be fast, Patroclus, should it not?”

“Yes,” I said.

Clysonymus turned to Achilles and said: “He is like a grub who crawls on the ground and can neither run nor defend himself, ready to be picked apart by the birds. Think! _He_ is the one who will rule us after the king’s death.”

Achilles gave a noise of agreement, and I pulled myself out of Clysonymus’ grip. Clysonymus grinned his jagged smile—if I ran away it would only prove him correct in his description of me. He would win no matter what I chose.

I did not care—Achilles knew now of my cowardice, and staying to be mocked would not fool him into thinking me brave. I scrapped my way out of the group and ran out of the hall and into the twisting hallway towards my rooms.

My rooms were at the very back of the palace, and my breath was ragged and heavy by the time I reached the wooden door.

No other boy would be out of breath from so little exertion, but nor would any other boy leave that hall without throwing a punch. I stumbled into the room which held my washbasin, already filled by a servant with cool water. I splashed the water over my eyes and looked at my dripping face in the cracked mirror which was rimmed with bronze. My eyes were dark and expressionless, and shadows bloomed below them. I did not look like a prince. 

_What is one more person who knows of my weakness?_ I asked myself. _We could never have been equals._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind comments after my last chapter! This is actually the first fic I've ever written, so I appreciate how nice you've been :)


	3. The Alcove

The next morning, I woke to the sound of driving rain.

It did not rain often in Opus, but when it did, it was so heavy that the dusty ground split into rushing rivulets and the hills were treacherous with mudslides. The entire kingdom stood still during rainy days—the farmers did not till their fields, the peasant women did not fetch water, and in wartime, the battles paused while men stayed in their tents. Opus grew stir crazy, the nobles and their slaves cloistered in the palace, the peasants dodging leaks under their thatched roofs, and even the hardiest of horses were brought in from pasture to take shelter in barns, kicking the stall doors. 

I would not have to train, yet I was not glad of the weather. It would be far better to practice a thousand sword drills than to endure the normally dark and cool palace filled with a crush of restless and confined men. I was tempted to pull my bedclothes over my head and hide until the sun came out in a day or so, but my room was the first place my father would look if he wanted me. He would have heard by now of how Clysonymus had humiliated me in front of Achilles.

I dragged myself out of bed and pulled the first tunic that I could find over my head. It was a deep burgundy color with silver thread on the trim. I refused to look into the mirror and be mocked by the juxtaposition of princely clothes on my skinny frame. My hair was almost certainly a mess of dark tangles, but I didn’t intend on being seen by anybody but the slaves today. 

It was easiest to avoid the nobles and their sons outside, but I was hardly a novice at finding places to hide inside of the palace. There were a hundred places within the marble walls where I could slip, silent and unnoticed, and wait out the rain.

Barefoot, I stepped out of my room into the dark corridor. There may have been a hundred places where I could hide, but there were only a few where I could both hide and listen to what was said by those from whom I was hiding. The men would be concentrated at the front of the palace in the entry hall which opened into the throne room, and it was there that I headed, stepping into the shadows to hide behind statues whenever somebody walked by. Though I passed several people, I was not noticed, even when I reached the entry hall, for deep shadows were always cast on the west side of the room until midday. The sun had barely crested over the horizon, so the hall was not yet full. It was safe for me to move along the west wall with my eyes down until I reached the part of the wall which hid the alcove.

The alcove was a deep depression in the wall about twenty feet above the stone floor. From the ground, all you could see was a dark hole, not interesting enough to be worth looking at. But there were a series of shallow footholds on the wall below the alcove, painted the same color as the wall. 

Grasping the footholds, I swiftly climbed until I reached the alcove that housed a dusty, bronze statue of some unknown, primordial goddess. The alcove was very deep, almost a tunnel, so that even in the sun of the afternoon, no light reached the statue, and her presence had long been forgotten until I had found her by accident as a child while hiding from my father.

I crept back to the front of the alcove and stared out at the entry hall. It was an enormous room with high ceilings, large enough to fit every high-born man in the kingdom. Clysonymus would be there soon, and surely Achilles as well. This did not bother me. They would not see me, and I could watch them from the darkness without fear.

The other side of the wall that held the alcove was outdoors, so I could hear the slashing of the rain if I pressed my ear against the cool stone. I listened to the rain as I waited for the hall to fill with noblemen, the voices of men beginning to mix with the sound of rain as the room began to brighten in the morning sun.

I was watching when Achilles walked into the hall, his hair glistening from the rain, the tiny droplets catching the morning light which shone directly on him. Everyone stopped to stare as Achilles moved into the center of the room, glancing around as if he was looking for someone.

 _Clysonymus_ , I told myself. _He’s looking for Clysonymus._

As if my mind had commanded it, the crowd of men parted and Clysonymus walked towards Achilles, clapping him on the shoulder.

I leaned closer to the front of the alcove for a better view. The corners of Achilles’ mouth were turned upwards, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes as he looked past Clysonymus, still searching. His gaze traveled upwards, and suddenly he was looking directly into the darkness of my alcove. Though I was sure that he couldn’t see me, it felt as if my chest was sliced open from the shock of his eyes peering into my hiding place, and I scrambled to the back of the alcove behind the statue. His eyes looked so much like a cat’s, green and uncanny. 

I crouched behind the statue, my chest heaving. I would have to stay at the very back of the alcove until I could calm my erratic breathing. The most important part of hiding is to be as calm as the shadow you hide in.

But I did not have time to calm either my heart or my breath. There was a soft footstep at the front of the alcove, muffled by the sound of rain against the wall.

“You are a very good hider, Patroclus,” Achilles said.

I did not respond.

“May I join you?” he asked. I could hear his palm sliding against the smooth walls as he felt his way to where I was crouching.

I imagined him dragging me out of the alcove, throwing me to the ground, and jeering to Clysonymus about how he had found me huddled at the back, too afraid to even respond.

“Yes,” I whispered.

I heard Achilles slide into a sitting position across from me, and then stretch out his legs so that they were next to me. There was no light at all.

“It is dark in here,” Achilles said.

I did not answer. There was a rustling noise, and I heard the strike of metal on metal. A weak flame bloomed on a small torch, illuminating Achilles’ face and casting a pool of light in front of him.

“Blow that out,” I said. “The others will see—”

“They will not,” Achilles answered. “They only ever see what is right in front of them.”

We sat in silence for a minute as I watched the flame flicker in Achilles’ eyes until he asked: “Why do you let him speak to you like that?”

“Clysonymus?” I asked.

“Who else?”

I gave up.

“Because it’s true,” I told him. “I amweak. He is right to say it.”

“Even if it is true,” Achilles said, “you are still his prince, are you not?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then why do you not act like it?”

“I try,” I said.

“Clearly not hard enough.”

“No one expects me to act like a prince,” I said. “My father says that I am slow of mind as well as body. He has told the whole kingdom.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It is the truth,” I said.

We were quiet for a moment.

“Is that why you wouldn’t let me practice with you yesterday? Because you are weak?”

“No,” I answered. “That was because they say that you’ve killed a man, and that’s why you’re here.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said.

I looked past the flame to his face, red and earnest under the heat of the blaze. 

“Perhaps not,” I said. “But accidents repeat themselves.”

“Was that the only reason?” Achilles asked.

“No,” I admitted. “It was true what I said. That my father doesn’t want you to see me fight.”

“So, it’s just me that’s not allowed to watch you? The other boys may if they choose?”

“Yes,” I answered. “That is how they know of my weakness. And because my father tells them.”

Achilles thought for a moment.

“I do not believe that you are truly weak. Most men would be afraid to gallop on the back of that golden horse of yours.”

“I am weak in the ways that matter. Greeks do not ride on the backs of horses anyway.”

I looked out into the lightness of the entry hall for the first time since Achilles had climbed into the alcove. I was desperate to ask the question that had been pressing on me since he had first introduced himself in the throne room.

“Achilles?” I asked. “Why do you keep your father’s name, even as an exile?”

He laid his head against the wall, listening to the rain.

“Because I am still my father’s heir,” he said. “I am only banished until my father’s death, when I become the king of Phthia.”

This was unheard of. Exiles were, by definition, banished for life. Exiles were not heirs.

“So, you truly are still a prince,” I said. “Like me.”

“Not like you,” he said. “My people would never humiliate me in my own hall.”

I felt the blood run from my heart into my neck and heat my face. I hoped that Achilles couldn’t see it with only the light from a small flame, but he moved the torch closer to me, illuminating my face.

“Your face is flushing red, Patroclus,” he said. “There is no need to blush, you proclaimed your weakness yourself.”

“I’d rather be weak than a murderer,” I said.

“Would you?” he asked. “Most men would choose otherwise.” 

I did not answer him. We both listened to the rain and stared through the darkness towards each other.

“You could pray to the gods to make you strong,” Achilles said.

I watched the flicker of the flame reflected in Achilles’ eyes.

“The men below will miss you,” I said. “You should return to them.”

“Let them miss me,” Achilles said.

We were quiet again. I looked at the hand of the bronze statue, illuminated by Achilles’ torch. I had never seen the statue in the light before. Its beauty surprised me, and I wanted to ask for the torch to be able to truly look at it.

“Why do you not like me, Patroclus?”

I tore my eyes from the statue and forced myself to meet Achilles’ gaze.

“That is an impertinent—” I began, but he cut me off.

“Clearly you care little about the impertinence of your subjects,” Achilles said. “And I am still a prince, so I may speak to you however I choose. Tell me why you dislike me.” 

I stood up, stooping under the low ceiling of the alcove.

“May I have the torch?” I asked. He handed it to me wordlessly.

The handle of the torch was smooth wood, and I knew that it would burn if the flame spread past the cloth dipped in sulfur that was lit at the tip. I waved the torch in an arc, watching the undulating ribbons of light dance on the opposite wall.

“The flame will not burn for much longer,” Achilles said. “And you have not answered my question.”

I moved the torch so that it lit the statue. The circle of light from the torch was small enough so that I could not illuminate more than a small part of the statue at a time, so I looked at the statue in pieces: her ankles, her hip, her stomach, and her brow.

I did not know how to answer Achilles’ question. He had done me no wrong, and yet he was correct—I diddislike him, and immensely. He was flawless—strong, beautiful, and clever in all the places where I was frail, ugly, and dull. It made my blood rush in rage when I saw how well-suited he was to being a prince, and how he glowed when he stood next to my father as I looked on from the corner. It was pure jealousy that made me dislike him, and there were few feelings more shameful to admit.

“The reason I dislike you,” I said. “It is not mendable. So, there is no point in discussing it.”

I heard Achilles stand and move so that he was next to me, looking at the glowing face of the goddess in the light of the torch.

“Who is she?” he asked.

His voice was closer to me than I expected, and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. I recoiled from his sudden closeness, stepping back, but there was no room and I hit my head on the wall.

“I do not know,” I said, blinking past the pain bursting in my head to look at the statue’s features. The bronze shone gold in under the flickering torch, and there was something almost alive in the statue’s expression, fierce and dignified. I was stepping closer to examine the line of her mouth when the flame flickered and died, leaving only the smell of smoke behind.

“Patroclus—” he started.

“My father will be wanting me,” I said, stumbling over the words. “And my mother—she’s not well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said.

I stared through the darkness for a moment. I could almost see the ghost of his outline, the curve of his mouth, and perhaps even the glint of his eyes. Then I turned to the light at the end of the alcove and moved towards it, my hand on the wall. The pounding of the rain lightened as I moved away from Achilles towards the brightness of the entry hall. I thought that I could hear the sound of his laugh as I pulled myself out of the alcove and began to climb down to the hall below. 

I cared nothing for the rain as I sprinted out of the palace and into the swirling weather. The rain was a clattering din, and the sound was joined by the angry crash of the waves that were so docile only the day before. Lightning sliced through the sky, illuminating the dark heavens as Achilles’ torch had brightened the alcove. My tunic was soaked through before I had taken three breaths.

My bare feet slipped through the mud as I ran, and I fell often.

 _Why do you not pray to the gods to make you strong?_ Achilles had asked. It was a simple matter for him to suggest, he who was half-god himself. I was the runt of a tyrant and a simpleton, without an ounce of ichor in my veins.

Yet I still ran through the mud towards the shrine, sliding through the mud and rocks and sopping grass. I ran past the cliffs, past the stable where I could hear Xanthos banging to be let out, and past the pastures which held sheep on sunny days. I ran through fields that held the corpses of flowers drowned by the rain, and around the golden temple of Zeus which I went to with my father on festival days.

It was not to Zeus’ shrine that I was headed—the king of the gods would have no compassion for a weakling who had only ever prayed to him when forced. The most I could hope for from Zeus was not to be struck with one of his lightning bolts as I sprinted to the shrine of his least beloved son.

At last, I reached Hephaestus’ temple, a mud-brick structure carved into the hillside miles north of the palace. I stopped outside the entrance for a moment, letting the rain rush over my face, not bothering to wipe the wetness from my eyes. When my chest was no longer heaving, I stepped inside and approached the god.

He was a limestone statue, smaller than most, and was placed at the very back of the shrine. The artist had done an excellent job tracing the sympathetic line of his brow and had not shied away from depicting the shriveled mess of Hephaestus’ foot.

I approached the statue, and met Hephaestus’ eyes, thinking of how Zeus had thrown him from Olympus when he saw his son’s disfigurement, knowing that he would always be the weakest of the gods, unable to bring honor to his father.

I knelt and kissed the shriveled foot.

“My lord,” I whispered. “Help me make something of my weakness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kindness in commenting! I've had so much fun writing this story so far.


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